Hunters Don't Wear Blaze Orange
by imsuper-who-locked
Summary: When a series of unexplainable deaths plague Santa Barbara, Juliet knows exactly what sort of killer is on the loose. However, things get hairy (literally) when two hunters arrive to take on the case. After "Nip and Suck It" for Psych and "Man's Best Friend with Benefits" for Supernatural. Some Shules.
1. Chapter 1

Juliet knew that it was going to be a difficult day from the start, but she was unprepared for just how difficult.

She got tangled up in the sheets as she tried to get out of bed that Thursday morning (as much as she loved Shawn, his sleeping patterns could be very annoying). She tripped out of the bed and gave herself a nasty bruise on the bedside table as a result. The coffee machine in the kitchen (the one they had bought just last week) wouldn't work, and she couldn't find the blouse she had been planning to wear with her new pants. Shawn could sense her irritation growing as the minutes passed and made less wise cracks than he usually did, which she was grateful for. With the mood she was in, he probably would have gotten hurt.

They drove to the SBPD, getting stuck behind a three-vehicle crash for nearly twenty minutes, and burst through the door just as Chief Vick was beginning the day's presentation.

"Glad you could make it," she said dryly as they snuck to the back of the group.

"My fault, Chief," Shawn said immediately, squeezing Jules' hand. "I had a crisis of the soul this morning. An existential crisis. Whatever you call it when the coffee machine breaks down."

She rolled her eyes and continued her presentation. "Anyway, as I have already said, four people have already died at this hotel." She gestured to the bulletin board behind her, which was already filled with the photos of the victims and speculations on the connections between them. The heading said Sunrise Inn. "There appears to be no other connection between the victims besides the fact that they stayed at the Sunrise. Their room numbers, floor numbers, age, sex, occupation, all varies. Whoever this killer is, he doesn't seem to have a type. The owners are shutting down the place for the week to allow us to gather the evidence we need and interview their entire staff. I'm going to need everyone's focus on this one. The owners are very respected in Santa Barbara, and they are depending on the SBPD to bring the criminals in."

As the group broke up to prepare materials and get ready to drive to the hotel, Juliet approached the board and examined the photos. Two male and two female victims, ages ranging from 18-54. Each one had their throat slashed and had died in the bathroom of their hotel suites. The doors had been locked—the victims had either failed to check out on time or had been discovered by a family member. The deaths had occurred within the past six weeks.

Shawn looked over her shoulder, scanning the information. "This looks like a bad one," he said quietly. She glanced over at him. Usually he had made about twelve jokes by now and at least five 80s references with Gus. In fact, she hadn't seen Gus at all yet this morning. She glanced around, curious.

Seeing her glance, Shawn said, "Gus went to a theme park with Rachel and Max."

Juliet nodded and gazed at the board again. God, so frustrating. Most serial killers had a set type of victims, and they rarely took them from the same place. But every once in a while you got a whack job that was just smart enough to leave no evidence and get away with it more than once. And, of course, every so often it wasn't a whack job at all, but Jules hadn't seen that sort of a case in Santa Barbara for a while… and she could live never seeing anything like that again.

"Sleeping Beauty, awaken, for it is I, your Prince Charming!"

She blinked a few times. Shawn was smiling at her. "She has awoken!" he exclaimed. Then his expression grew serious again. "Everything okay? Is something about this case freaking you out?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Let's get going." She pulled him over to her desk and quickly strapped on her gun and handcuffs, stuffing her badge in her pocket.

She grabbed the keys to Lassiter's car on her way out and found him stalking back in, having forgotten them for the fiftieth time. Smiling, she handed them over and he snatched them with a growl. "Let's go catch this psycho. Spencer, back seat. And if you so much as breathe on the upholstery I swear to God…"

Shawn made a show of sucking in his breath. Lassie turned and stalked out of the station, evidently in a worse mood today than usual…just her luck. Once he was gone Shawn released his breath, rolled his eyes at his girlfriend, and followed her to Lassiter's car.


	2. Chapter 2

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty."

Dean muttered something unintelligible and shoved his head underneath the pillow. Sam set the cheap dollar coffee he had picked up across the street on the end table, knowing the smell would get his brother out of bed much faster than he ever could. If it was black and steaming, Dean would drink it.

A hand snuck out of the blankets and gripped the Styrofoam cup. With a groan, Dean managed to wade up from the crappy motel bed and take a sip of the coffee. "Whatimeizzit?"

"6:45. I let you sleep in."

"Ugh. Five more hours is sleeping in. Is the hotel even open this early?"

"It's a hotel, Dean. It's open 24/7. And the cops are showing up sometime this morning, so I want to get a look around before they invade everything. Apparently they aren't allowing guests for the entire week so the SBPD can go over every crime scene again. So if we don't go now, we probably won't be able to get in without a lot of questions."

His older brother ran a hand across his face. "Yeah, yeah, I'm getting there. Get the suits out of the car."

About twenty minutes later both brothers were dressed and ready. Sam made sure to hang the Do Not Disturb sign on their door and they headed off.

Sam had had high hopes for this case. In the midst of all of the usual personal crap they were dealing with, this looked pretty straightforward. They'd go in, gank the thing, head off. Maybe the quick case would even cheer Dean up a bit. But things went wrong from the very beginning.

"Aw, damn it," Dean muttered, pounding the heel of his fist on the steering wheel.

At least five squad cars were parked in front of the hotel. Sam glanced at his watch. "It's 7am. They weren't supposed to come until at least ten."

"Tell that to these assholes," Dean snapped. "How the hell are we supposed to find this thing and kill it with the local law breathing down our necks, Sam?"

"We've done it before."

Dean muttered to himself but pulled the Impala into the parking lot. The main circle in front of the hotel entrance was crowded with black-and-whites, and officers swarmed through the entire area. As they walked up toward the activity, one of the car doors opened. This one, although not the usual style, was evidently a police-issued vehicle judging by the man who got out. He was tall, scowling, obviously used to intimidating people, and wearing what were obviously cop's clothes. His eyes flashed on Dean. "Who the hell are you?" he barked.

Sam quickly got out of the car, ready to intercede. Dean was already aching to start a fight, and this cop was asking for it. His older brother flashed his badge. "Agent McCartney, FBI. And before you ask, yes, several suspicious murders in one hotel does call for expertise outside of the local law enforcement. You've got any problems, talk to my supervisor. Now if you'll excuse my partner and I, we've got a lot of work to do." Dean shoved the business card with Garth's FBI number on it at the cop and stalked past him. Sam quickly shut his gaping mouth and approached the man to smooth things over.

"Sorry about that," he said quickly. "My partner's been having a rough couple of days. I'm Agent Jones." He held out a hand to shake.

The cop sneered at him. It was rare for anyone to be tall enough to stare down at Sam, and although this man was nowhere near matching the younger brother's height, he was able to meet his eyes almost on a level. "This is a Santa Barbara matter, and the SBPD will be sufficient to handle it."

Sam was able to keep himself from rolling his eyes with an effort. Why did local law enforcement always feel the need to defend their territory? Did it matter who got credit? "We understand that, Officer…" He glanced down at the cop's shirt, but he had no name badge.

"It's _Head Detective_ Lassiter," the local cop spat. "And I don't think you understand exactly what I'm saying. I am saying that you and your boy-band partner can take a hike!"

Sam was just wondering how to respond to Lassiter's "boy-band" comment (it fit Dean surprisingly well) when a woman approached from behind the detective. "What's going on here?" she barked. She had short blonde hair and was obviously in charge. She exuded an aura of command, which was made apparent when the man at her side took a respectful step back.

"You didn't tell me that the FBI would be involved with this," Lassiter said reproachfully to the woman.

She eyed Sam up and down, raising an eyebrow at his height, and then held out a hand to shake. "Chief Vick."

Sam hesitantly shook hands with her. Sometimes there were cops that just wouldn't budge without official papers from their supposed supervisors, and then they were forced to investigate illegally. Chief Vick looked like she would be one of thesecops. "Agent Harry Jones," he said, forcing a smile.

The chief glanced behind her shoulder, where Dean was already interrogating the owners of the hotel. The man had a supportive arm wrapped around his wife's shoulders, and they both looked nervous. Sam hoped his brother wasn't being his usual unsympathetic self. "It looks like your partner is eager to get working on this case, Agent Jones," Chief Vick commented. She didn't exactly look angry, but she wasn't going to be welcoming them with open arms.

"He's new to field work. He keeps trying to prove himself. Gotta keep him under close supervision," Sam said quickly. Oh, Dean was going to kill him.

"I see. And you wouldn't happen to have any official documents from the FBI that would explain why two agents are intervening in my case?" Her voice became suddenly hard and cold, and even Detective Lassiter looked suddenly wary of her.

Sam dug another card out of his pocket, praying that it would derail this hardass long enough for him and Dean to figure out what was in the hotel. "You can contact my supervisor. He said there was a problem with the paperwork and he wanted us out here as soon as possible." He handed the card over for her inspection.

Chief Vick glanced at the card briefly and then turned to Lassiter. "He showed you his badge?"

The detective nodded reluctantly. The chief turned back to Sam and glared at him with narrowed eyes. He felt a shiver run down his back, although the woman was at least a foot shorter than he was. "I don't want you or your partner interviewing anyone or entering any of these crime scenes until I get this straightened out." She motioned with her head to where Dean was still standing with the couple. "I mean no offense, but you need to understand that this all has to go through official channels first."

"I understand," Sam said hastily. "Of course." He turned abruptly and hurried past the two cops, cursing to himself. Garth wouldn't be able to hold her off for long; they only had a few minutes until the ruse was discovered.

He approached his brother, hearing snippets of their conversation. "All in the bathroom?" Dean was saying.

The man nodded, wrapping his arm more firmly around his wife, who looked gaunt and exhausted. "All in the same spot, right in front of the sink. The door was always closed and locked, just like the door to the room itself. But the bathroom doors only lock from the inside." He glanced over at Sam. "Are you FBI too?"

"This is my partner, Agent Jones," Dean said quickly. "Now, the condition of the victims—"

"Agent McCartney, I need a word," Sam interrupted.

Dean met his eyes, looking pissed. "Can't it wait?"

"Nope."

Dean almost rolled his eyes. "We'll be right back," he told the owners, and then followed Sam's lead a few paces away, far enough from both the husband and wife and the cops that were prowling around so that they wouldn't be overheard. "What is it?"

Sam directed his brother's gaze toward Chief Vick. She was standing at the edge of the parking lot, her cell phone to her ear. "That's the chief of police. She's calling Garth right now. She's set on the papers, Dean."

"Shit." Dean glanced back at the couple. "I didn't get much out of them, just the stuff we already know. This is going to have to be a middle-of-the-night thing, isn't it?"

"I guess so. We need to get out of here now. Garth's not going to hold her off for long."

The brothers managed to make their way through the busy cops without attracting any more unwanted attention, sneaking past Chief Vick while her back was turned. As they walked, Sam caught her saying, "—what do you mean exigent circumstances—" before they hurried past toward where the Impala was parked. Dean chuckled. "He might have her going for longer than you thought, Sammy. That's our Garth."

For once, luck was on their side. By the time the Impala was turning onto the main road, no alarms had gone off. Sam glanced over his shoulder as Dean made the turn and saw the chief still standing with her phone to her ear. He wasn't sure at this distance, but he thought she looked sufficiently confused. Then the hotel was gone from sight. The Impala hadn't been identified as theirs, and their fake names would lead to nothing but dead ends. Although illegal wasn't exactly the best method, it would be a hell of a lot easier if there wasn't a full-fledged search for them. Again.

"Damn, damn, damn!" Dean muttered. "We all want the same goddamned thing here. People to stop dyin'. So what's with the territorial attitude all the time?"

Sam didn't reply. Dean went through the same rant every time this happened. He wasn't surprised when his brother, instead of turning toward their motel, drove into the parking lot of a hardware store instead. This job was going to require tools. They were going to have to prepare for tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

When Lassiter finally came in, he was steaming. Juliet was kneeling on the floor of the first crime scene, Room 112. Since it had been the first murder it had already been cleaned spotless, but she wanted to get a good look at each scene. Fortunately no one had stayed in this room since the murder-stupid rumors about hauntings, probably. Although Jules was starting to wonder if maybe such rumors, at least in this case, weren't so stupid at all.

"Who the hell do they think they are, cutting in on a Santa Barbra case with no permission or jurisdiction?" Lassie slammed the hotel door shut, face nearly red with rage.

Shawn was standing in the center of the room, eyes closed, arms waving in strange directions. The officers who were coming and going to collect samples cast him frequent glances that ranged from amused to outright annoyed. Juliet knew the whole psychic thing was bogus, but she had made the decision to allow Shawn to continue his lie and therefore his work with the SBPD. She couldn't deny the overwhelming amount of criminals he had helped to put away and the lives he had improved, as much as she had been hurt by his deception. At first she had been livid, but now they were on good terms again. Good terms, she thought again to herself, thinking of the previous night. Not quite a strong enough phrase. She glanced at her boyfriend, who was now moving slowly through the room as though struggling through thick liquid, moaning to himself. He was the strangest person she had ever met, but he was also the best detective she had ever had the privilege to know.

Suddenly Lassie's polished shoes were right in front of her. She looked up, leaning back so she could meet Lassiter's eyes. "The FBI just showed up," he hissed. "Two goons in their fancy suits with the fancy badges, acting like they own the place. No one told me they were going to be involved." Her partner was positively steaming. She hadn't seen him this angry since Shawn had filled his best work shoes with peanut butter.

Shawn broke out of his fake trance. "FBI?" he gasped. "I knew it. Two guys, one tall with extremely long hair, one who looks like a male model? I thought they had to be FBI. Either that or health inspectors."

Lassie glanced toward Shawn, eyes narrowed. He had gotten past the point where he asked Shawn where the hell he got his information from. "They just left. Didn't have their official documents in order. Typical. They think they're above normal police procedure. Well, Chief Vick showed them how we do things here in Santa Barbara." He knelt down next to Juliet. "What do you have?"

Jules glanced back down toward the tiled floor, suddenly unsure of herself. "Well… it could be nothing, but—"

"Go with your instincts, O'Hara," Lassie said shortly. Although he sounded somewhat impatient Juliet knew it was his way of encouraging her.

"Well, there's a scratch on the tile here. I'm not really sure what could have made it, but it seems unlikely that any of the hotel guests would have made something like that."

Lassie nodded. "Nice eyes. I'll have forensics take a few pictures and we'll see if any of the other crime scenes have markings like that." He stood up and passed Juliet to go into the suite's living room. Shawn came in almost immediately.

"What have you got?" he asked quietly. Now that she knew his secret, she found that he was a lot more willing to collaborate on cases than he usually was.

Juliet glanced up at him. "How did you know what the FBI guys looked like?" she said.

He glanced toward the officers that were still circling the room. "I saw them out of the window," he admitted. "The chief didn't exactly greet them with open arms."

"No, she wouldn't," Jules agreed. "Alright, look right here. This tile, it's scratched. What sort of thing would make a mark like that? All I can think of is furniture, but who'd be dragging the bureau into the bathroom?"

Shawn stared down at the mark she had found. She could almost see the gears in his head turning at high speed, calculating, measuring. He hadn't really explained in great detail how his detective skills worked, but she knew he had a much better memory than most people and brilliant insights into connecting little details. "Some kind of… animal?" he asked, tracing the mark with a finger. Usually if there had been an audience, he would have pretended to be said animal to channel its energy and reveal its location. But it was only Jules here, and he simply allowed himself to sit back and think. She was grateful.

"How big of an animal?"

"I would say smaller than Smokey the Bear and larger than our old friend Wile E. Coyote." His eyes narrowed suddenly and he shot her a strange look. "Didn't the report say that the throats were all slashed?"

She thought back to the board and those gruesome pictures. "Guess it wasn't animals, then," she sighed, and made a move to get up. Shawn put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her down, and pulled out his phone.

"I've got a hunch," he said in response to her inquiring glance. He pressed a few buttons and held the phone to his ear. "Hey, Woody," he said. "Are you with the hotel victims right now? Oh. Oh. Well, that's… great. Um. Lovely. Yeah. Woody, can you… yeah…" He covered the phone with one hand. "Apparently he's in the middle of a Skype session with a date. It sounded like internet sex." Jules ruled her eyes as Shawn waited for Woody to stop whatever it was he was doing. "You good? Alright. So the cause of death was blood loss, but what type of weapon would you say made the actual cut? …uh-huh. No kidding? What kind? …huh. Thanks, man. Yeah, go get her, tiger." He gave a somewhat uncomfortable laugh and hung up the phone. "Remind me to erase the last two minutes from my memory. Forever. Dear God, why must my imagination be so vivid?"

"Shawn," she pressed.

"Woody says the cuts weren't made by any sort of knife. Or any kind of bladed weapon at all." He lowered his voice to his dramatic-reveal tone. "He says the wounds were made by a claw."


	4. Chapter 4

"This is a really bad idea."

Dean glanced behind him as he backed into the nearest available spot, saving his glare for when the Impala's engine was finally silent. "You got any better plans? Were you gonna sit at the motel all day and fiddle around with your laptop until all of the cops left? This way we'll get something done and maybe be prepared for what we're gonna find tonight." Dean got out of the driver's side and slammed it shut, signaling that the conversation was over.

Sam sighed deeply, even though Dean could no longer hear him, and got out of the passenger side, making sure to duck his head as he always did. He was almost positive he had a permanent dent in his skill from all the times he had inadvertently whacked it on the doorframe. He took a few steps back and looked up at the Santa Barbara Police Department. It was a handsome building, surrounded by trees in full bloom, but he still felt a wave of unease as he looked at it. "Such a bad idea," he muttered to himself.

His older brother was waiting impatiently by the steps and Sam caught up to him with just a few strides. They entered the building, Sam desperately praying that no one who had been at the hotel earlier that day would be there to recognize them.

Luckily for them, the main entrance and the offices were nearly empty—it seemed that most of the SBPD force had been sent out for the current investigation. A few people wandered around here and there, casting somewhat suspicious glances at Sam and Dean, and Sam guessed that there were at least a dozen officers patrolling the city, but for the most part the place was silent. Sam was relieved. At least the terrifying chief was nowhere to be found.

Dean approached one of the female officers who sat behind a desk. "Excuse me, but where would we find the coroner's office?" he asked politely.

She glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow. "May I ask what your business there is?"

Sam cut in quickly. "We made an appointment with the coroner. We have urgent business we need to discuss with him." He quickly flashed his badge, hoping that she wouldn't look too closely.

To his surprise, the officer just sighed deeply. "Yeah, that's Woody to a T. Doesn't inform anyone that he's meeting with the FBI and doesn't bother telling them the location of his office." She pointed back toward the other end of the building. "There's a staircase over there. Go down and to the right and you'll probably find him in the main storage room."

They thanked her and headed off in that direction. Sam looked down at Dean. "We got lucky," he said simply.

"What did I tell you?" Dean replied, smirking. Sam rolled his eyes and followed him down the steps. The smell of formaldehyde became increasingly apparent as they descended, making him wrinkle his nose. He didn't have very pleasant experiences associated with that smell—sawing open a corpse's skull to reveal a shriveled and wrinkled brain, cutting into a patient's heart on Valentine's Day… all in all, Sam would have no problem with avoiding coroner's offices as much as possible.

They approached a set of heavy swinging doors with glass partitions set into the top halves. Inside they could see the coroner's back, bent over table on the far side of the room. "Still going with the FBI angle?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Dean shrugged. "It's the only badge we have with us. Besides, we've already pissed off that boss chick enough so she'll start investigating. How much worse can it get?"

Sam pushed open the door and led the way inside the room. The smells of the death room came on stronger than ever and he coughed a bit. The sound alerted the coroner, who whipped around to look at them. Sam wasn't sure what he had expected, but this bald, bug-eyed man wasn't it. He was wearing an apron that said Kiss the Coroner with a lipstick kiss underneath the words and it was currently covered in barbecue sauce. As Sam and Dean exchanged bewildered looks, the man wiped his sticky fingers on a corner of the apron. "Welcome, welcome!" he exclaimed. "Welcome to my humble abode! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Dean approached the table where a white cloth was spread over a corpse. He lifted the top of the sheet and glanced beneath. Sure enough, it was one of the hotel victims.

The coroner almost bounced over to them, holding out a hand still covered with remnants of barbecue sauce. "I'm Woody," he said cheerfully.

"Agent McCartney, FBI, and my partner is Agent Jones," Dean said, ignoring Woody's outstretched hand and flashing his badge. Sam prayed that the coroner wouldn't inspect the badge too closely, but he didn't even seem to look at it.

"Fruitless Battles with Indigestion? That's the story of my life, gentlemen." He flashed them an embarrassed smile. "Tums just doesn't seem to cut it anymore, and neither do the margaritas."

Both of the brothers stood, baffled, for a moment. It had been a long time since someone had said something so off-the-hook that it shocked them into silence. "What the hell are you talking about?" Dean finally asked.

"Right, right. Juliet tells me that I should stop sharing personal information at work and only focus on police work. Alright. What can I help you boys with?"

Sam could see that Dean was already at the end of his rope with this guy, so he gestured to the body. "We need information on the vic. How exactly did he die? Were there any unusual things you found during your autopsy?"

Woody, far from being suspicious of the FBI's involvement in the case, looked absolutely delighted to answer. "As a matter of fact, I just got off the phone with my buddy Shawn. I did find something unusual with the body. Well, several somethings with this one. Who the hell eats baked zucchini on the same day as they eat an ice cream sandwich? That's disgusting, I tell you. But, the body itself, now that was interesting. You see the wound." He lifted the sheet himself, folding it over so the man's corpse was exposed from the shoulders up. Dean and Sam both leaned forward to get a closer look. "Now, I know knife wounds," the coroner continued, still sounding as excited as a child on Christmas, "and I can usually tell what sort of knife it is just from the cut. But this, now, was definitely made by an animal."

The Winchester brothers exchanged looks. "An animal?" Sam repeated. "What sort of animal? A bear, a dog… a wolf?"

"I'm not quite sure yet. I don't really have the experience to deduce the types of claw marks. I did, however, find a few strands of fur that I've sent in. I should be getting the results in just a few hours. My personal guess is the echidna. Not many people know this, but they are actually vicious killers. This looks like just the kind of victim the echidna would leave behind."

There was another awkward silence. Dean cleared his throat, sounding impatient. "Whatever. Anything else weird about the body? Discolorations, lacerations, smells?"

"Oh, this guy really liked his garlic and carbonated drinks, I can tell you that," Woody chuckled, covering the body again and turning back to his snack. Dean rolled his eyes once at Sam and he got the message. His brother was only seconds away from strangling this guy, and they would need to leave within the next few minutes to avoid making a scene.

"Well, thanks so much for your help," Sam said quickly, following Dean as he turned from the cold steel table. The elder brother literally had his palm on the door and was ready to push it out when the eccentric coroner caught their attention once again.

"Yessir, garlic and soda. Just the right combination to create that lovely smell of sulfur."


	5. Chapter 5

"This makes no sense!"

Juliet glanced up at her boyfriend from the couch in the Psych office. Shawn was pacing back and forth, brandishing a half-eaten bag of Doritos at the empty air in front of him. "I'm sure we'll find an explanation," she said for the fifth time. She did, in fact, believe this. Well, alright. Jules believed that _she_ would find an explanation. She wasn't going to allow Shawn to get close to this case at all if she could help it.

"What sort of animal returns to a hotel four different times, manages to get through the front door, the lobby, and the staircases without being seen, enters locked hotel rooms, claws four people to death, and then locks the bathroom door and escapes?" Shawn mused, for the sixth time. "All without bothering to take a bite of the victims?"

"The claw is just a weapon, Shawn," Juliet said wearily, knowing what his answer would be. "It's probably a human killer."

"I'm leaning toward werewolf right now. A real werewolf, not a schizophrenic patient wearing a pelt. A real, live werewolf." His voice grew louder, as it always did when he was excited… or want to appear to be. Juliet crossed her legs, sighing internally. It was best to let him continue with his rant. She knew he didn't really believe in werewolves; he was just confused and trying to hide it. At least she hoped he didn't believe in werewolves.

The telephone suddenly rang, making them both jump. Shawn glanced at the clock he had recently ordered online. The center was a picture of his face. "Who's calling at 8:03 o'clock?" he demanded. "Don't these people know I'm in the middle of an important investigation?" He picked up the phone. "Psych office, extremely handsome and hassled psychic detective speaking." Shawn snuck a peek at Jules as he said this. He knew she still wasn't happy with the deception, and never really would be.

"Shawn, it's me," Henry Spencer barked. Juliet knew who it was just by the immediate sag of Shawn's shoulders. "You need to get down to the house right now."

"Let me guess. The curtain rod fell off and you threw out your back trying to put it back up. No, I have a better theory. You have a lady friend over and desperately need my help with tips to keep her from running away at the sight of your obscenely bald head."

"No. As a matter of fact, I've got the molding remains of some buffet and a mess of game controllers in my living room. I was gone two days, Shawn. What the hell did you and Gus get up to, and why did you break into my house to do it?"

Shawn rolled his eyes dramatically. "I've got a key. Give me a few hours. Minutes, I said minutes. Your hearing is going, old man." He hung up the phone and gave Jules a special smile that she knew so well—it was his about-to-ask-for-a-favor smile.. "See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!"

Jules sat up, letting her hand fall to her lap. "Those quotes got old around the second day that we met," she reminded him. "What did he want?"

"Obviously to partake of my genius advice on matters of life and love." Jules just rolled her eyes. "I'll be back in an hour, sweetheart. Want me to pick up some food?"

She took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself. "Actually, Shawn, I forgot to mention that I'm hanging out with a girlfriend tonight. I'm not sure when I'll be home." She tried not to wince. The lie sounded obvious to her—her voice was trembling and she had her hands in fists to keep them from shaking. Damn it, she shouldn't feel guilty. This was Shawn they were talking about. It wasn't like he felt any qualms about lying to her. But she knew this would eat at her for the next few weeks, if not months.

Thankfully, Shawn either wasn't paying attention as much as he normally was or he decided it wasn't a matter to pursue further. "You go and get some girl time, Jules. I was thinking I was going to hang out in Shawn's Batcave tonight anyway."

Juliet snickered. He had established a corner of their basement home as his "batcave" where he went to play foosball with Gus and indulge in the latest Mentalist episodes. There were also a few attempted woodwork projects from when he had tried to make her a birdhouse. Shawn had told her those attempts were never to be spoken of again. "We'll make a date tomorrow night," she said quickly, already feeling like an ass for the lie.

"It's a date," he agreed. He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. A few minutes later, as the quick kiss was just beginning to deepen into a full-out make out session, his cell phone rang. "I'm coming, I'm coming," Shawn mumbled, going in for one last peck before pulling away. He grabbed his phone off the desk, silenced it, and gave her wink before pulling the door shut. "Have fun tonight!" he shouted.

"I will," she replied. She sat, listening, hearing the sound of the Blueberry starting on the street outside and the soft purr of the engine as he pulled away. Gus had stupidly lent Shawn his company car for the weekend while he went on an amusement-park vacation with Rachael and Max. Surprisingly, he hadn't added any new scratches. Yet.

Juliet turned around on the couch and peeked outside. She was just in time to watch Shawn pull around the corner toward his dad's house. Then she hopped up, grabbed her keys from Shawn's desk, and headed out of the Psych office to her own car, making sure the door was locked. Yes, the lie was terrible, but it was also a necessity. When her choice was to lie to Shawn or endanger him, she would pick the former every time.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam had sort of stopped noticing all of the clichéd horror movie scenes that he and his brother often prowled through. Abandoned asylums, caves in the middle of the woods, and of course the always popular haunted houses. He had lost the thrill of fear at the bottom of his stomach every time he stepped up to one of these places around the age of twelve. At that time he had always had Dad and Dean at his side, ready to destroy any and all creature that might be lurking. Sometimes, however, the scene was just so unbelievably clichéd that he felt like he was starring in some sort of horror film parody. On this particular night the moon was full, a blanket of fog hovered over the entire town, and the whispering of the trees above them was the only sound in the otherwise hushed hotel grounds. The slamming of the Impala's doors sounded unnaturally loud and Dean paused to grin briefly at his brother.

"Spooky, innit?" he asked, glancing up at the moon. Werewolves tonight. Hopefully none in this area, or they were going to have a lot more on their plate than whatever mysterious entity was creeping through Sunrise Inn.

"All the classic signs of a haunting," Sam agreed. They walked together around the block to where the hotel sat, looming and intimidating in the moonlight. As they approached the main doors Dean pulled out his lock picking kit. He offered it to Sam, who shook his head. For some reason there was an unusual tickle on the back of his neck, and he preferred to keep an eye on the parking lot. He didn't want his back to the fog.

Dean shrugged and knelt down, pulling out a few tools and getting to work. Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around, wondering why he felt so jumpy. He haunted ghosts and demons for a living (not even for a living—he and Dean rarely go paid). He wondered if it was yet another symptom of the trials, sort of like the demon sickness that had plagued his older brother a few years ago. While his brother's extreme fear had been funny at first, it became less so when they learned it was fatal and Dean became completely incompetent. Sam's fists clenched. If something like that happened to him, Dean would probably have a heart attack.

"Hey, Sam," Dean said suddenly, his voice low. Sam jumped a little, but when he turned his brother was still hunched over the lock and hadn't noticed the movement. "Did that coroner guy remind you of anyone?"

Sam's eyes lit up in a brief smile. "You know anyone else who eats barbecued chicken while they cut into a body?"

"No, no, not his personality. His looks. When he frowned, he just reminded me a lot of someone and I can't put my finger on it."

His little brother leaned back against the wall of the hotel and considered. In fact, he had had the same sort of feeling when he talked to the coroner, but had dismissed it at the time—surely they had never met anyone like that eccentric man before. Now, however, he thought again. Just who had they met who looked like Woody…?

"Got it," Dean murmured, standing up and pocketing the tools. Sam let go of his musing again and gave the parking lot one last glance before Dean pulled open the door. He caught his older brother looking around, too, with an unaccustomed wrinkle to his brow. He wasn't the only one feeling nervous, then. This wasn't going to be something they were accustomed to dealing with.

The lobby of the hotel was dark and silent, which was a strange sight for a place that was normally bright and welcoming twenty-four hours a day. Sam took a few steps in, his eyes sweeping the place from left to right. The front desk was immediately to the left, abandoned. Next to that was the hallway that led both to the first floor rooms, the staircase, and the elevators. On the right another hallway leading to the pool, ice machines, and coffee shop. A loud click echoed behind him and he jumped again. Dean smirked as his little brother whipped around to locate the source of the noise. "Just locking the door behind us," he said. "Sheesh, Sam. That coffee getting to you?"

Sam ignored him and dug a scrap of paper out of his front pocket. On it were the four hotel room numbers where the victims had been found. "Do you want to go in order of victims or by each floor?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What? You don't want to split up?"

"You know what happens when we do that. We end up getting kidnapped. Or hurt. Or possessed. Or missing important things. Nine times out of ten we would be better off sticking together." Sam brought his volume down a notch on the last few words, conscious of Dean's bewildered expression.

"Okay, Sammy. Whatever you say. Let's start at the top and work our way down." Dean stuck his shotgun into the waistband of his jeans and pushed past Sam to the doorway leading to the staircase. However, Sam did catch the look his older brother shot him as he did so—somewhere between annoyance and concern. It was just beginning to cross Dean's mind that Sam's paranoia could be a symptom of the trials. He told himself to tone it down a notch—if his brother knew about the other things that had come as a result of their newest escapades, such as the blood in the sink and the way he could barely stop shaking…. Well, he would not be happy.

Sam took a quick look at the front desk to find the all-access key card (they had figured it wouldn't be guarded very securely, as the hotel was completely shut down and the only expected guests were police officials). It was in the bottom drawer of the cash register, which was one of the old-fashioned ones with an easy-to-pick lock. He tucked it into the front pocket of his jeans and went to follow Dean.

The third victim had been killed in room 531. She was a woman, thirty-two, on a ten-year anniversary celebration with her husband. He had gone out for a jog in the early hours of the morning six weeks ago and had returned to find his wife locked in the bathroom with a pool of blood seeping out onto the living room carpet. That was the one case where hotel employees hadn't been called in a panic to unlock the door—the husband took care of that himself, using a fire extinguisher from outside of the room. By the time the occupants of room 533 had called to the front desk to complain about the noise, the door had already been broken down. The hotel manager found Mr. Richard Schubard sitting in his wife's blood, cradling her. Elise Schubard's throat had been torn out.

Because this was the penultimate crime scene, the tape had long been removed from the hallway. Sam swiped the card through and the light blinked. This room opened onto a balcony overlooking the courtyard, allowing the moon to shine through. The bathroom was immediately to the left. Dean flicked on the lights and pushed open the bathroom door.

Although no guests had used it since the incident, the scene had still been completely wiped of any sort of evidence. Both the brothers searched the entire hotel room for anything out of the ordinary, but there was nothing. No chills, no mysterious glowing presence, no ominous whispers. After twenty minutes, Dean declared the scene useless and they moved on.

The prickle had slowly faded during their investigation of the crime scene. As they climbed down the steps to the third floor, however, it returned in full force. Something was in the hotel with them. Sam wasn't sure why, but he felt like it wasn't a ghost. He was just about to pull the scrap of paper from his pocket when they stepped into the third floor landing and saw the obscene yellow crime tape decorating the door of one of the rooms down the hall. It was the most recent crime scene—the murder had been committed just two days ago.

"This is the fifty-four year old," Sam muttered. "Sam Davis."

Dean glanced at him sharply. "Nice name," he said finally. "How was the body discovered?"

"A maid found it. He didn't have the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and she figured he was out of the room. Apparently she hasn't really stopped crying since."

The room number was 318. Dean slit open the seal on the door with his pocketknife and took the keycard from Sam. The sound of the door clicking open sounded louder than ever, and Sam found himself grabbing Dean's shoulder before his brother could walk into the room. Dean turned, shooting him a glance but staying silent. The older Winchester wasn't an idiot; he knew when to mock Sam's paranoia and when to shut up and let his brother follow his hunches. He stood aside and let Sam in the room first.

Sam drew out his shotgun, glancing around at the silent room. By sneaking a quick look at the window overlooking the balcony, he saw that a few clouds had passed in front of the mood, obscuring it completely. The gloomy interior didn't stop him from noticing the bathroom door, however. It was open a crack.

Sam gestured to this with his gun and Dean nodded. His older brother circled around silently into the main bedroom, where a second door opened into the same bathroom. Sam took a quiet breath, gripping the gun more tightly in his hands, and kicked the door open. On the other side, Dean did the same.

He wasn't sure what he had been expected—some sort of animal at the very least. It even looked like an animal at first glance; it was hunched over underneath the sink. In the next second it rolled out from underneath the appliance and sprang up to full height, which didn't come anywhere near Sam's. Rather than fleeing, however, the shadow did something completely unexpected: It drew a gun.

"Dean, wait," Sam shouted. He saw his older brother creeping behind the figure, shotgun held in the air, ready to smash it down. Dean froze and the person whipped around, moving the gun's barrel from one to the other. And then, incredibly, it groaned. The voice was unmistakably female.

"Just my luck. The one supernatural creature in Santa Barbara and I get the Winchesters to come and help." The gun dropped, though the woman looked as though she would be ready to bring it back up at a moment's notice. Sam peered through the gloom, trying to see who this chick was. Dean did the smart thing and flicked on the lights, causing both of them to wince in pain. Through the tears now streaming from his eyes, Sam finally got a good look at the woman. He couldn't keep the shock out of his voice as he spoke her name.

"Juliet?"


	7. Chapter 7

The petite blonde stowed her gun in its holster, looking up at the two Winchesters. The last time they had seen her was when she had been twelve years old and Dean around the same age. She hadn't changed enough to be unrecognizable, but of course she was a woman now. She had short blonde hair that was currently pulled back in a clip and the same sharp gaze that had always so impressed Sam. She had been one of his very first crushes.

There was a brief moment of awkwardness between them, and then Sam chuckled a bit. "How've you been, Juliet?" he asked.

That broke a smile on her face and she went in for a hug. "Not too bad. How about you guys?" She pulled back and stared up at his face. "Hate to say it, but you look exhausted."

"Whole bunch of crap going on with us, but we're alright," Dean said quickly. Juliet turned to him and wrapped her arms around him as well. As the embrace tightened, a few memories flashed quickly in Sam's mind—images of a much younger Dean slumped against a wall, bloodied, his spent shotgun on the ground and Juliet standing over him with her gun shoved under the throat of a werewolf. Dean let go, surveying her face. "You haven't aged a day," he declared.

"I would hope I don't still look like a twelve-year old," she groaned. Then her expression grew more serious. "I assume you guys are hunting this thing, too?"

Sam glanced around at the room. The blood had been cleaned up, but there was still an array of items left by Sam Davis standing on the counter—a deodorant stick, a razor, shaving cream, a mushed tube of toothpaste. "Do you know what it is?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "All I know is that it's not human. The coroner says the wounds were made with a claw, and I found a mark on the tile of the first crime scene, but it can't be a werewolf."

"Victims still had their hearts," Dean agreed. "We got that info from the coroner too. He said they found some fur, so we were gonna check in with him about that."

Juliet raised an eyebrow. "You got… you guys weren't pretending to be FBI this morning, were you?"

Sam chuckled and dug his badge out of his pocket for her inspection. She turned it over, marveling at the work. "Harry Jones?"

"And Agent McCartney," Dean smirked. Juliet sighed deeply and handed the badge back. Then she froze, looking up at him in horror.

"You guys met Woody?"

Dean was just about to open his mouth, but Sam wanted to stop that conversation before it could begin. He interrupted before Dean could get the first syllable out. "Hey, how did you even get in here? We had to break the seal on the door to get in."

Juliet looked sheepish. "Well… I shouldn't actually be here on my own—I work for the SBPD. I didn't want to break the crime scene tape or make it look like anyone had tampered with it, or there would be a blowout. So… I got into one of the rooms on the fourth floor and dropped down from the balcony."

The Winchesters gave her an incredulous look. "Man, you have gotten so badass! Have you been hunting all this time?" Dean asked.

She shook her head. "Not since I graduated high school. My dad—"

There was a loud crash that made all three of them stiffen and turn their heads in the direction of the door. In silent agreement they made their way out of the bathroom, Dean leading the way. Sam almost took the back but one look from Juliet was enough to make him follow his brother. He'd forgotten how she hated to be treated like she was the weakest. He trusted her skills enough to let her cover their backs.

Dean pushed a piece of crime scene tape out of his way and shone his flashlight down the hallway on both sides. The left side revealed a serving cart that had been upended. Dishes were spread along the carpet and a white cloth was draped over a large, animal-sized bundle. As the group began to approach it, the bundle moved. Sam drew his shotgun at the same time that his older brother did. Juliet slid a very lethal-looking knife from her belt and kept her gaze behind them. Dean aimed his shotgun at the precise moment that the figure beneath the cloth let out a groan.

Juliet moved faster than Sam could have believed. "No!" she shouted, pushing past Sam and shoving Dean's gun away. The abrupt movement caused it to fire into the wall; the rock salt tore the wallpaper to shreds. The now squirming figure let out a yelp at the sound and began to scuttle away, still underneath the tablecloth.

"Juliet, what the hell?" Dean asked, but she was already moving. She marched over to the huddled figure and ripped the tablecloth off, letting it drop beside them.

A terrified man cowered beneath her, looking up at the hunters with wide eyes. His short hair was brownish and stuck up wildly around his face from the static electricity. He wore a bright green shirt with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on it and a pair of mud-splattered jeans. His gaze passed over Sam and Dean before he looked all the way up at Juliet. "Jules!" he gasped. "What are you doing with the FBI guys?"

Juliet pulled him to his feet, looking absolutely furious. "What are you doing in this hotel? I thought you were going by your dad's!"

"And I thought you were going to drink strawberry martinis with your pretend girlfriend." The guy brushed off one of his pants legs, which only smeared the mud more. "Come on, Jules, I know when you're lying. You stammer and you get these big old deer eyes. I'm not blaming you," he said, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender as she started to speak over him. "We both know you have earned a couple of free passes in that department. But… I was worried."

Dean and Sam exchanged confused glances as Juliet sputtered for a moment. "So you followed me? When you knew that I didn't want you to know where I was going?"

"If it helps, I was going to be entirely secret until I knocked over this stupid serving cart thing. I was in stealth mode, Jules. You never would have seen me." She glared at him and he quickly looked away, his eyes meeting Sam's. "So what's the deal with the FBI guys, anyway?" he asked, obviously trying to distract her.

"Actually, we're—" Dean began, but Sam silenced him with an elbow to the ribs.

"Agents Jones and McCartney," he said quickly. "We, uh… we got permission to explore the crime scene but we needed access from a SBPD officer."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Nice names. I like them. What are your real ones?"

"Shawn, those are their real names," Juliet said impatiently.

He glanced at her. "Please don't insult my intelligence, sweetheart. First of all, Jones and McCartney are the worst fake FBI names ever. As if anyone who lived in the rock-and-roll era would believe that the decedents of Paul McCartney and Brian Jones would ever get paired up together. Second, these guys are obviously brothers. In my experience, most brothers have shared the same last name, although one of you may in fact be a bastard."

"Shawn!" Juliet snapped, but Sam gave him an incredulous look.

"How did you know we were brothers? We don't even look alike."

Shawn put a finger to his temple. "I'm –"

"Oh, give it a rest! He's extremely observant. He probably noticed the subtle marking that you both have on your foreheads that means you are either brothers or cousins, and then he probably deduced that you're brothers because of the way you dress. And now, it's really nice that you guys have met, but now Shawn has to get going." Juliet took him by the shoulder and began to push him down the corridor.

Shawn's expression changed from exasperated to a fury that matched Juliet's. "If you think I am alright with leaving you in the hands of two pseudo-federal agents and their awful outfits while a deranged animal killer stalks you, then you don't know me very well."

Juliet let out a noise of frustration. She whipped around and stalked back toward the crime scene again, leaving the three guys somewhat bewildered behind her. Sam awkwardly put out his hand. "Uh, sorry about the fake-name thing. I'm Sam Winchester. My brother is Dean."

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, but Shawn just shook his hand. "Shawn Spencer, pseudo-psychic for the Santa Barbara police department. If I have incriminating knowledge about your identity, you may as well have some incriminating knowledge about mine."

"Pseudo-psychic?" Dean asked.

"It's a bit of a long story. So, if you guys aren't FBI agents, why are you here, exactly? And how do you know Juliet?"

They all shut up as the hotel suite's door slammed shut and Jules stalked back down the hallway to where they stood. She had a large purse with her that she must have left in the hotel room. "Childhood friends," she said shortly. "And that's all you need to know. If I'm not kicking your ass out of here, you'll do exactly as I say and you won't ask any questions. Got it?"

Shawn gazed at her for a moment, his eyebrows both raised. "Got it," he said finally.

Juliet took a deep breath and turned to the Winchesters. "I don't think the crime scenes are going to be any more of a help to us. I'm pretty sure they were chosen randomly. I think we should look around the hotel in general to see if there's any evidence of… strange activity."

"Fine. Sam and I will start in the basement. You two can make your way down from the top. Do you have a key card?"

She dug it out of her purse. "I got it this morning from my partner. Here's my cell phone number. We can meet up in half an hour right here."

Sam took the scrap of paper she handed him and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. "If we don't answer the phone, just scream. We'll come running."

"Great, thanks." She punched his arm lightly and pushed open the door that led to the stairs. Shawn glanced behind them and then followed her.

Dean sighed. "This is one freakin' weird case, Sammy. And we haven't even found our ghoul yet." He started to head down the hallway and then stopped, turning back to Sam with a grin. "Hey, you know what's weirder—you got her phone number before I could even ask for it!"

Sam shoved his brother's shoulder and pushed past him down the hallway. Dean followed, still chuckling a bit. Really, Sam was relieved. The more distractions that appeared, the more his anxiety seemed to lessen… and the more Dean's suspicions eased. For just a few moments, their present drama seemed distant, and Sam was perfectly content to keep it that way.

Neither of them heard the low growling that came from the end of the hallway, and their flashlight beams never touched the beast's crouched figure. When they had found another staircase leading to the basement and descended, it approached the overturned cart. It took a few deep breaths, inhaling their scents, and then turned its head toward the direction of Juliet and Shawn's exit—and disappeared.


	8. Chapter 8

"So, let me get this straight," Shawn said.

Juliet poked her head into one of the housekeeping closets, trying not to sigh. While she did appreciate his concern for her, she was currently panicking about the situation. They still weren't sure exactly who or what the killer was. What if it was something from which she couldn't protect Shawn? Her hunting skills were rusty. She had given up on the job after her father (who had taught her everything she knew) abandoned her. Sure, she'd take care of a rowdy ghost here or there, but the last time she had done that was before she had even moved to Santa Barbara. Her purse was currently packed with what she had viewed as the essentials—salt, holy water, her gun, a silver knife. From what she had seen, the Winchesters had packed similarly. But what if the creature they were hunting was something extremely difficult to kill?

She glanced over at Shawn, who was still trying to put together the story she had made up on the spot. It wasn't good and she knew he'd have tons of holes to challenge her story in moments. She didn't really care. What she cared about was that glint in his eye, the sparkle that came when he was putting pieces together and seeing something new. She cared about the way he ran a hand through his hair to spike it. She saw the worried expression he was shooting her way, and knew that at the moment all she really cared about was keeping him safe.

"You went to the police academy with these two guys and worked with them before you came to Santa Barbara," he continued, "and think you might be tracking a killer that you all first encountered in Miami, but they can't reveal that they're working with you to catch this killer because…?"

Juliet gave him an exasperated look. "Shawn, can't you just let this go?"

"No, Jules, I can't. We are stalking a killer in an abandoned hotel with two guys who may or may not have good intentions and you are lying to me left and right when I know for a fact you only lie when you think things are really bad. So what I need from you is nothing but the complete and utter truth, and then maybe we can work on making things good again and getting out of all this with our beautiful faces intact." He turned to her abruptly, taking her hands in his. "Jules, just tell me what's really going on," he pleaded.

She was just wondering where to start (_I hunt monsters? So remember when I told you werewolves don't exist…? Our killer may in fact be a ghost…?_) when he stiffened, his fingers tightening around hers. "Did you hear that?" he asked.

Juliet almost groaned. This situation was serious, and here he was acting like the stupid victim in every clichéd horror movie they had ever watched. She supposed she should be grateful that Gus wasn't here to egg him on, either intentionally or unintentionally. That comment alone would have been enough to make Shawn's best friend run for cover in the nearest closet. But just as she was about to berate him she realized that she did actually hear something.

Growling.

In a move that was reminiscent of every awful slasher movie ever, they both turned their heads toward the end of the hallway. Though the moonlight was slanting through five windows between them and the end of the hallway, Juliet couldn't make out anything beyond a shadow. Slowly she released Shawn's hand and brought it down to her belt, waiting for the beast to react. Her hand closed around the cold metal of her gun.

There was a loud _bark _that echoed through her ears and the shadow jumped forward, clearing two doorways with one move. Jules shoved Shawn behind her and drew her gun quickly, firing twice. If she had had any lingering doubts about the supernatural nature of the killer before, they were gone with those two shots. She _knew _she had hit the dog. She knew it. The blood spattered against the wall and the huge creature actually visibly stumbled. But it still kept coming.

Desperately she dropped the gun and drew her knife, praying that the silver would have some sort of stronger effect. But to her shock, the enormous dog stopped just a few feet from them. For a few seconds there was complete silence as they sized each other up. Juliet swore that the stupid thing was _grinning _at them. And then, just when she had decided to slash her knife, everything changed.

The dog's back arched, it let out a pitiful moan… and black smoke began pouring from its mouth in a huge cloud. Stunned, Juliet could only brace herself in front of her boyfriend and prepare for the worst.

But the smoke did not consume her. Instead, it flew past her face in a foul and slightly warm breeze that made her gag. As soon as it was past she was gasping, coughing, and trying to blink the tears from her streaming eyes. From behind her she heard more choking noises. Juliet whipped around to see Shawn staggering back, the smoke pouring into his mouth. His arms flew out and his entire body shuddered, dancing like it had just been zapped with a huge bolt of electricity. In a few moments it was over and he collapsed to the ground.

Juliet ran over to him, falling to her knees. "Shawn! Shawn!" she gasped, putting a hand to his throat. A pulse beat there, quick and hard. "Shawn, are you alright?"

"Jules…" he murmured, and she sighed in relief. And then his eyes snapped open. They were pitch black. She had just enough time to see his lips curl up in a nasty grin before his hand whipped up and locked around her throat.

"Dearest Juliet," the thing that was not Shawn whispered. "So sweet, so kind. So full of secrets. What kind of hunter are you that you are ignorant of my kind?"

She gasped, her fingers clawing at Shawn's hands. They tightened in response and she had to close her eyes for a moment to fight the unconsciousness that threatened to consume her. After a few seconds his grip slackened just enough to let her sneak in a quick breath. "What-?" she breathed, but that was the only word she could manage.

"What am I? I am simply shocked that you don't know. You must be out of practice." It grinned with Shawn's face, and she felt a shudder rip through her at the sight. It was his smile, all right. But the coal-dark eyes glaring out at her… what sort of hellish creature did they belong to?

The Not-Shawn sat up, pushing her back without releasing its grip on her throat. In a similar manner it stood up, taking her with it. From this new angle she could just make out the shape of the huge dog lying on the faded carpet only a few feet from her. It was obviously dead. "There goes my element of surprise," Not-Shawn sighed. "Ah, well. I suppose I can improvise. I'm not here for you, beautiful Juliet. I am here for the Winchesters. You and your stupid little boyfriend just got in my way. But there are solutions to every problem, if you know how to look for them." It laughed, a short, quick chuckle that she had never heard coming from Shawn's throat. For a second Juliet fully expected the hands to tighten around her, but then she heard the sound of a doorknob being turned. The housekeeping closet door opened behind her and she was shoved inside, tripping and falling clumsily on her butt. She had to take a few moments to gasp for breath, and those moments cost her. By the time Juliet had gained enough oxygen to think clearly again, the Not-Shawn had retrieved her gun from where she had dropped it and was pointing it at her. She froze, gazing past the cold barrel to Shawn's face. His expression sent a sliver of ice into her heart.

It laughed again. "Oh, Juliet, why the forlorn expression? I'm not going to kill you. That would be such a waste." The gun was dropped, and the tension in Juliet's shoulders relaxed. And then the Not-Shawn drew the weapon back and slammed it against her skull; she crumpled to the floor.

"I'm saving you for later."


	9. Chapter 9

"Do you remember that case with the werewolf?"

Sam glanced over at his older brother. They had just descended to the hotel's basement level. It held the swimming pool, an exercise area, the laundry room, and a few places for storage. They had broken into a few of the rooms already and hadn't yet encountered anything out of the ordinary. Dean was currently picking the lock to one of the storage rooms. He twisted his head around briefly, making sure Sam had heard the question.

"Kind of," he said finally. He had been going on eight, if he remembered correctly. It had been a bad one. The Winchesters had run into the O'Haras while tracking what they thought was just a regular werewolf. Frank O'Hara had been training his daughter Juliet, who had only been a few years older than Sam at the time. When they finally tracked down the werewolf's identity, John and Frank left the kids in the Winchester's motel room while they went to take care of the beast together. Dean had been on some self-righteous preteen streak—he had wanted to prove himself, once and for all, to John. He was tired of babysitting his little brother on the sidelines while his dad did all the cool stuff. Dean had tried to sneak out of the motel room, but of course Sam and Juliet had noticed and followed. "The werewolf turned out to have been a serial killer before he got turned, right? Had a whole bunch of corpses in his basement."

Dean nodded grimly. "Dad tore me a new one for letting you guys come along." He finished with the lock and put his hand on the doorknob. "I wonder what ever happened to Frank O'Hara."

"I'm guessing he probably didn't sell his soul to any demons," Sam said dryly. Dean rolled his eyes, but the subject wasn't as touchy as it had once been. He pushed open the door and flicked on the lights. Both brothers froze in their tracks.

Dean whistled through his teeth. "I think we just hit the jackpot, Sammy."

"I'm gonna call Juliet." Sam dug his phone and Juliet's number out of his front pocket and dialed the numbers. He put the phone to his ear, still staring at the contents of the room. The phone rang twice, and then a man's voice said, "Hello?"

For a moment Sam thought he had dialed the number wrong, and then he remembered the guy who had been cringing underneath the table cloth upstairs. "Um, Shawn? Is Juliet there?"

"She's checking out some of the housekeeping closets. We haven't found any serial killers up here yet."

"Well, you guys need to get down here now. Whatever this thing is, we just found its lair. We're on the basement level in one of the storage areas. We'll leave the door open and the light on."

"Alright." They hung up, and Sam pushed the phone back in his pocket as he took a few more steps into the room.

Dean had walked in and was investigating what looked like a medieval torture device in the center of the room. It was a wooden chair with metal clamps designed to lock in the wrists and ankles of the person sitting in it. Glancing around, Sam could see an array of items set on a plastic table against the far wall, items that also looked like they belonged in a dungeon. A wooden rack had been pushed in the far corner and there was a pile of chains dumped at its base. Dean looked up at his brother, his expression bewildered.

"What the hell is this thing, Sam? It kills with claws and has fur, but it likes to play Spanish Inquisition in its spare time? It could get out of a locked room from the inside without a trace, but doesn't chew on the victims? Can't be a werewolf, probably not a shapeshifter or skinwalker. They can't teleport, damn it."

Sam picked up a few of the tools on the table. They were all pristine, as though they had never been used. The last time he had seen a collection of torture devices like this… "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way," he said suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"We've been concentrating on certain clues and ignoring others. We're getting caught up on the whole animal thing, but we both know that there are creatures that aren't bound by one specific shape. Think about it. What other clues do we have? What's tripping us up?"

Dean walked over to his brother, thinking hard. "The whole escape method, for one thing. Door's always locked but there's never a killer. The state of the bodies—werewolves would eat the hearts, kitsunes would suck on the brain. This is just a slash-and-dash. And…" His eyes met Sam's, and they widened.

"Hey, guys?"

They both turned to see Shawn walking into the room, alone. His expression grew shocked as he looked around at the room's contents. "Oh, geez. Is this where the killer lives?"

"I think it would be a good guess, wouldn't you? Most hotels I know don't make a habit of torturing their guests." Dean strode up to him, eyes narrowed. "Where's Juliet?"

Shawn took two steps back, looking unnerved. "She's, uh, still upstairs. She thought she found something—"

"Save it. We know what you are. What I need to know is why you're here in the first place, and what your motive is. And what you did with Juliet O'Hara."

"For God's sake, she's my girlfriend, I didn't do anything to her! I told her you were both a pair of psychos but she didn't believe me. For all I know this could be your stuff down here…"

He trailed off as Dean's hand whipped out and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. At the same time he drew Ruby's knife from a sheath around his waist and pressed it against the trembling man's throat. "I don't know who you are or how much you know about us, but I'm just gonna let you know that this knife was given to us by one of your kind. When I stab you with it, it will send your ass straight back to hell. So you're gonna come with me to this nicely prepared chair and sit down and we're gonna chat about what you've been doing for the past few weeks and about your meatsuit's girlfriend."

For a few seconds neither of them moved. Then Shawn took a deep breath and blinked. Sam wasn't surprised to see the pitch-black eyes that now smiled at his brother. "What gave it away?"

"Sulfur," Sam said from behind Dean's shoulder. "We forgot that the coroner said the body smelled like sulfur. We were too busy looking for an animal. But that's what you wanted, wasn't it? Demons possessing stray dogs isn't exactly a normal occurrence."

"We do prefer you humans. We need the power of speech to explain to you idiotic hunters exactly how weak and insignificant you are. But we can possess other living creatures. My plan worked. You boys were so busy running around trying to find the wicked beastie that you didn't set up any Devil's Traps or douse me with holy water."

Dean pressed the knife even closer. "Yeah, well, we're always prepared to gank one of you losers. Sam—"

The demon that was in Shawn rolled its eyes and made a pushing motion with its hands. The brothers were hurled back into the wall. Sam groaned as his head cracked against the concrete. He and Dean hung on opposite walls, suspended. _We really have to find some way to stop this before it happens,_ Sam thought vaguely. He felt blood running out of his nose in a thin stream.

"I'll be taking this, if you don't mind," the demon said, strolling up to Dean and grabbing the knife. When the older Winchester's grip only grew tighter, it punched him hard in the stomach. Dean let out a grunt of pain and relinquished his grip just enough so that the demon was able to wrest it away. "Thank you, Dean," it said dryly. It set the knife on the table with the other tools, out of reach.

"So this was a trap for us," Sam said, seeing that Dean would be unable to speak for a few moments. "So who are you?"

It stood in front of Sam and smirked. God, demons were melodramatic. "Yes, this was a trap. But not for you. I could have cared less whether you had come at all, although I know the Winchesters are pretty much a package deal. I came here specifically for your brother."

"Why?" Dean spat. Sam glanced over at him. Their eyes met. He knew the expression on Dean's face. They were going to play it out, for now. Find out exactly who this demon was and what it wanted.

The possessed Shawn turned back toward Dean, its smile growing wider. "I'm surprised that you haven't guessed. In fact, I'm surprised that you hadn't expected this and prepared for it."

"Would you just quit with the damn monologuing and spit it out?" Dean asked. He had finally gained his breath back and was pushing at the demon's hold on him. Sam joined in. Sometimes the demon's control could be broken through struggling…but usually only when it was exceptionally weak or distracted. This demon was not.

"Trevor Hartman," the demon said suddenly, staring at Dean with narrowed eyes. "Does the name ring any bells?"

Sam glanced over at Dean again, and to his surprise his brother had stopped struggling at the demon's words. In fact, he was completely frozen, staring at it with an expression of shock. His entire face slowly drained of blood as Sam watched.

"Dean?" he finally asked. "Who the hell is this guy?"

His older brother's mouth moved, but no sound came out. Sam's gaze switched to the demon. "How do you know Dean and what do you want with him?"

The demon's expression brightened. Sam didn't know Shawn Spencer will, but that smile on the human's face was enough to send a shiver racing through him. "Oh, your brother and I met a few years ago… but we have had ages to get to know each other. We share a very personal bond—we are intimately familiar with the sounds of each other's screams." The demon spun to look at Dean again, who was still pale. "Yes, I would say Dean knows me very well. Each and every little piece of me."

Sam felt his stomach drop. He recalled a conversation that he and his brother had had such a long time ago; the same expression had been on Dean's face then as it was now. _They sliced and carved and tore at me in ways that you... Until there was nothing left..._

"No," Dean whispered.

"Yes." The demon glanced over at Sam, the gleeful smile still playing around its lips. "Has your brother told you about his lovely stay in Hell?"

Sam avoided the demon's eyes. It laughed. "I would guess yes. From what I hear you boys are tight. I take it you've heard all about Alastair, then? The deals he would make with the souls who were his… special favorites?"

He glanced at his older brother but Dean wouldn't look at him. His fists were clenched against the wall and his eyes were squeezed shut, as though he could fight the demon's grip through the sheer force of his will. His voice echoed in Sam's head again. _God help me, I got right off it, and I started ripping them apart..._

"Trevor Hartman," the demon repeated. "My name was Trevor Hartman when I died. I was one of the souls that your brother so mercilessly tortured."


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry for the extreme delay with this one! My 4****th**** of July week was insanely busy and I've also had a few other plot bunnies trying to take over my mind. **

Juliet awoke with a killer headache, a feeling that she was somewhere she shouldn't be, and a strange but potent sense of dread.

Her hand went to her head before she even opened her eyes. There was a nice egg already forming on her scalp, but otherwise she seemed to be alright. She glanced around but could see nothing. Slowly it all came back to her, and she got to her knees quickly as she remembered that Shawn was in trouble.

That wasn't really the phrase, she reflected. _In trouble_ for Shawn usually meant that he was locked in a room with a killer, or that he had managed to get himself in the middle of a dog-fighting ring, or even that he had pissed off a very dangerous member of the Chicago mafia. Dealing with the supernatural was always much worse. That black smoke, whatever it was, had control of her boyfriend. And God only knew what it would do when it found the Winchesters.

She had a watch, but with no light coming in through the crack underneath the door she couldn't see the time. By the ache in her skull Juliet estimated that she couldn't have been out for more than an hour. The pain hadn't yet dulled to a throb and the blood beneath her blonde hair hadn't been completely dry. Even so, an hour was enough time for everything to be over with… and for the victor to have been decided.

Juliet's stomach dropped. If Sam and Dean had beaten the creature (and hopefully gotten it out of Shawn), they would have started to search for her by now. Shawn could have told them where she was and she would have woken up to his face instead of this darkness. That she was still locked in here could only mean that the battle wasn't over yet, the Winchesters had lost… or that Shawn was unable to tell them her location and they were looking for her on their own. That Shawn was unconscious… or…

She stood up completely, pushing the thought away for the moment. If he was, there wasn't anything she could do about it but destroy the creature. And she couldn't do that while she was locked in this damn closet. She tried the doorknob just to be 100% sure, and of course it didn't move. However, she would have felt stupid if she had broken down the door only to discover that the Not-Shawn had neglected to lock it. With the obvious solution disbanded she concentrated on finding a way to break down the door. It would be somewhat difficult. She felt the shelves and stood on tiptoe to touch the ceiling to estimate the amount of space she had to work with. Juliet figured that the closet was about five and a half feet in length, four feet wide, and the height was just barely within the length of her fingertips. Not a lot of space to knock down a door, but she had no other options.

Juliet took a few steps back, bringing her to the farthest wall of the closet. She thanked God both that the door opened away from her (which would make the possibility of her knocking it down possible rather than very unlikely) and that the housekeeping staff kept the closet neat and tidy, giving her more space. She brought her right leg up a few times and placed it near the lock of the door, not kicking with force but judging how much room she had to move and trying to figure out the best way to avoid whacking any of the shelves. When she finally felt she had a path that would cause the least damage to both her and the door, she took a few deep breaths. She could hear the voice of one of her physical instructors at the police academy in her head, telling her to lean into the kick and to focus on the door's weakest point. Then she let out a huff and slammed her foot next to the lock.

The entire door shuddered and there was a loud creak, but no crash. Juliet wasn't worried. Sometimes doors took two kicks, and she wasn't able to get her full force behind her with the confinement. She took a few more deep breaths and kicked again. This time she was rewarded with a loud bang as the door fell onto the worn hotel carpeting. She took the time to roll her ankle a few times, but the kicks had been well-placed and she hadn't twisted anything. She stood in the doorway of the housekeeping closet for a moment more, trying to decide the best place to go. If Sam and Dean were looking for her they could be anywhere from this floor down, and she'd run into them eventually. If the creature had overtaken them—assuming it hadn't just killed them and left—it most likely would have done so on one of the lower levels, where the brothers had been investigating. She jumped over the door and jogged toward the nearest staircase. The Not-Shawn had taken her purse with it, but if Sam and Dean had been overcome by the creature, there probably wasn't anything in it that would help her anyway. She'd go with nothing but her sharp instincts and her burning desire for revenge.

At each landing on the staircase she opened the door a few inches and listened, but didn't hear either the Winchesters or the Not-Shawn. She walked through the lobby just to be sure that all of their vehicles were still in the parking lot, and saw her car, Gus' Blueberry, and what looked like a very old and classic black Impala in the lot. She raised her eyebrows at that but confirmed that everyone was most likely still in the hotel. It was then that she heard a yell. And it wasn't Shawn's.

Juliet sprinted to the staircase and hurried down the stairs, stopping before she opened the door to the basement level. It felt like she had just been shocked. Adrenaline ran through her, making her heart pound in her ears and her chest flutter wildly. This was the feeling she got before a take-down or when staring down the barrel of a gun, but she had never felt as vulnerable as she did at this moment. She was going up against a supernatural enemy with absolutely no weapons or knowledge on her side. An enemy that had subdued the Winchesters, who both had several years of experience. An enemy that was possessing Shawn.

For the first time she actually considered the implications of that fact. Could she do harm to Shawn's body? If she had to, to protect not only Sam and Dean but the citizens of Santa Barbara… could she kill him? Juliet clenched her fists tightly, feeling her nails digging into the flesh but not registering the pain. It was without a doubt the most awful decision she would ever have to make. And she knew that she wouldn't know her choice until the moment came.

Without another thought, Juliet pushed open the door and began to creep toward the storage room, where a door was cracked and light spilled out onto the floor.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam had been strapped to a table one too many times in his life.

He brought his head up a bit, trying to catch sight of the demon. It was bent over the table he had seen before, its hands fiddling with something. He glanced over at Dean, who was still trying desperately to loosen Trevor Hartman's hold on him. He couldn't imagine the memories going through his older brother's head, but he knew that Dean still held on to a ton of guilt from his time in Hell. Whatever the demon had in mind for revenge, its mere presence was already doing enough to torture his brother.

Hartman turned back, clutching a small knife. Sam's muscles immediately tensed as he prepared himself mentally for the pain that was sure to come. No matter what came, he would not make a sound. Dean stared at him desperately, sweat beginning to form on his forehead. "Hurt me, damn it!" he shouted, his voice echoing around the nearly empty room. "I'm the one that tortured you!"

The demon grinned at him, black eyes boring into Dean's. "Oh, no. If there's one thing I learned from asking around about the Winchesters, it's that you boys would do anything for each other. When I asked what Dean Winchester had done to get himself sent into the flames, I learned it was to save his little brother from dying. I've heard about the Apocalypse that never was, when you refused to fight against each other and Sam ended up in Lucifer's Cage for it. I have done extensive research on you, Dean, so that when the time came I would know exactly how to cause you the most pain." It gestured to Sam. "Seeing your brother suffering will torture you more than I ever could. Besides, you've been Alastair's plaything and there's not much anyone can do to you after that.

"Although," Hartman speculated, turning from Dean and grinning at Sam, "I've got to say that by the end of it you were getting as good as the big man himself. There were days when I almost wished I had gotten Alastair instead of you, Dean. I mean, being tortured by demons with nothing compared to being tortured by a human: By someone I should have been able to trust. Someone who knew what it was like to suffer."

Dean's eyes were shut and he was shaking, from the effort of his continued attempts at escape or from the effect of Hartman's words, Sam couldn't tell. He wanted to say something, anything, to get that look off of his brother's face, but he couldn't. Dean's actions were done, and to him the circumstances under which they were done didn't matter in the slightest. It didn't matter that he had held on for forty years. It didn't matter that the souls in Hell were dead anyway and that they would have been tortured anyway. Dean had broken, and that was all that mattered to his brother. And there wasn't the slightest thing Sam could do about it.

Suddenly the demon lashed out with the knife and Sam shouted in surprise. He hadn't been expecting the sudden pain and he grimaced as blood began to flow from a shallow cut on his arm. "_Sammy_!" Dean shouted.

Hartman grinned. "Praying on your guilt and praying on your brother. Meg was right. Dean Winchester's formula for pain."

The brothers shot each other a look. "You've spoken with Meg?" Sam asked. His voice was tight, all his muscles clenched as the cut on his arm began to sting.

"Oh yes, we know each other. Long before she turned her back on us and began working with you to destroy Crowley. We had a nice talk about the Winchesters and our dreams of what exactly we'd do to them if we ever held them in our clutches." Hartman made another swift cut, but this time Sam was prepared. He squeezed his fists and gritted his teeth. Blood dripped down the other arm now.

Dean sucked in his breath. He was hanging limply now, not bothering to fight. "You weren't there as long as I was," he said. "You never reached your breaking point. You don't know what it's like."

"How do you think I became a demon?" Hartman demanded. "You know how time moves in Hell. I spent much more than forty years down there. I outlasted _Dean Winchester_. So don't give me your sob-story. I know what it's like."

Sam had been trying unsuccessfully to tune the demon's words out. Whatever Dean had done in Hell, he knew the details weren't anything his older brother wanted him to know. He kept his gaze away from both his torturer and his brother, desperately trying to ignore the words. And then a hint of movement caught his eye.

He looked at the door and saw a flash of blonde hair. _Thank God_, he thought, a flood of relief going through him. He hadn't thought Juliet was dead, but he thought she may have been hurt to the point where she couldn't move. Now he could see only a tiny section of her face as she poked her head in and took in the scene. She met his eyes and he could see how pale her face was.

He glanced quickly toward Hartman, but the demon was leaning over Dean and murmuring something. If Sam concentrated he could have made out the words, but he immediately turned his attention back to Juliet. In those brief moments she had already slipped through the door and was crouched behind a crate, which shielded her from the sight of Dean and the demon but not from Sam. She was mouthing something but she was entirely in shadow and Sam couldn't read her lips.

Another quick slash with the knife distracted him. This one was near his elbow. He flinched and looked at Hartman again, making sure the demon hadn't noticed where Sam had been looking. Up until now he had forgotten about the man who was being possessed—Juliet's boyfriend. He was in there somewhere, locked away in his own mind. Shawn had to be protected as much as possible, for Juliet's sake.

"Your brother has told you how they torture in Hell, hasn't he? Ripping pieces off bit by bit until there's nothing left." The tip of the knife played over Sam's face. "Some would start from the top and work their way down. Some would cut off all of the toes first and work their way up. But Dean, he had a different method. He cut straight into the middle and worked his way inside out." Hartman pushed up Sam's shirt, revealing the muscles of his stomach. Sam gritted his teeth again and looked up toward the ceiling.

"Sam can't die, you know," Dean said suddenly. "The angels are protecting him. If you kill him, they'll resurrect him. And then we'll both come and kick your pathetic ass."

It was a desperate bluff. Sam kept his eyes on the ceiling, waiting. He had died before—he had been stabbed, shot, had fallen into the crevice of Lucifer's deep pit. Being shot had been the least painful; had his killers not been flaunting their weapons, it was possible he may not have even realized what had happened to him. Stabbing hadn't been fun, but then he had been conscious for a good minute after it had happened. The pit… well, it was only the thought that nothing could top that in terms of sheer agony that was keeping Sam in his right mind.

The cold touch of the knife slid across Sam's stomach and he almost panicked before realizing that Hartman hadn't cut him. The dull side of the knife slid back and forth across his skin as the demon stared at Dean. "And why would the angels be protecting a boy with demon's blood, a boy who was once the vessel of Lucifer himself?" it asked, in a tone of voice that sounded as though it was discussing nothing more important than the weather. "I wouldn't think Heaven would have any interest in protecting someone like that."

"Like we would tell all of our plans to a demon," Dean shot back. His voice was more confident now. Sam sensed his brother had another play in mind, but they didn't have the opportunity to silently communicate like they usually did. Sam lifted his head once again, first making sure that the demon's attention was riveted on Dean before glancing over to Juliet's hiding spot.

But when Sam looked, Juliet was gone.

"I don't believe you," Hartman said. "The Apocalypse is over. There's nothing left for Heaven and Hell to do until Lucifer escapes or the King of Heaven returns, both of which seem unlikely. Nice try, Dean." The knife's point seemed to hang over Sam, suspended, for an eternity.

Then there was a flash of reflected light as the blade came whistling down.


	12. Chapter 12

**Again, I am really sorry for the delay with this one. Even after I got my laptop back, I had writer's block every time I tried to work on it. Thanks to a certain someone for giving me a few ideas and getting me back on track again! :)**

Though her internal struggle really only lasted for a few short moments, Juliet felt like the argument inside her had lasted a lifetime.

It had been easy enough to sneak around to where the Winchesters' weapons had been dropped (or possibly tossed aside); she had seen the barrel of one of the shotguns poking out from behind a crate. Jules had waited until the Not-Shawn had been sufficiently distracted before running from the shelter of one box to the next. Unfortunately, she didn't know what sort of ammunition the shotguns held. She didn't want to open the chamber and possibly alert the Not-Shawn with the noise. If they were packing rock salt, that would be fine—it wouldn't give Shawn much more than a bruise or maybe a cracked rib if she hit him from a distance and it would either take care of the creature possessing him or distract it long enough for her to free the Winchesters.

But it could also be packing regular shotgun shells.

Jules crouched behind the crate, holding the sawed-off in trembling hands. The Not-Shawn and the Winchesters were still talking, and she assumed Sam was trying to buy her some time—he had definitely noticed her, if he hadn't actually understood her silent message. She wasn't paying attention to the specifics of their conversation. She was too busy trying to decide if the Winchesters were worth risking her boyfriend's life.

They were childhood friends, sure. But she hadn't seen them in years. Didn't even know them, really. Not like she knew Shawn. She didn't know their favorite flavor of ice cream, or whether they preferred the Breakfast Club over Fast and Furious, or if they would burrow their heads into their girlfriends' shoulders at night when the house was totally silent and it was only them, lying in the dark, listening to each other's heartbeats. Jules closed her eyes briefly, pressing a closed fist to her mouth, trying to suppress a sob. Damn it, she and Shawn had just gotten back together! Things had just started to be great again—not just great. Wonderful. And now his eyes were black and his body had been taken over by a stranger, a creature that had killed at least four people and who knew how many others. And she was sitting there, holding what could be his salvation or his destruction, and now the room had suddenly gone silent.

She risked a glance over the top of the crate. At this angle Sam's feet were pointed toward her and the Not-Shawn had its back to her. Its head was turned toward Dean and she sensed that it was thinking very hard about something. In her heart, Juliet knew that the time for thinking for her was over. It was now or never. She could either save two lives and avenge four others… or let a murderer continue his rampage with two fresh victims. She stood up and raised the shotgun, feeling as though her soul had momentarily disconnected from her body. _I'm sorry, Shawn_, she thought briefly. _I love you._ She registered the fact that the Not-Shawn had raised his arm high in the air before her finger tensed and pulled the trigger.

Immediately her heart felt a thousand times lighter. She knew the rounds were rock-salt—the shot sounded different than the noise that was made by firing regular ammunition. A wave of satisfaction went through her as the Not-Shawn staggered forward onto Sam, dropping the knife with a clatter. That would teach the bastard to mess with her boyfriend!

A hand was at her shoulder then, and she turned to see Dean. The creature's hold on him had apparently been released with the shot. He held out a hand silently and she gave him the gun without hesitation. The Not-Shawn had rolled off of the table and was standing, an eerie expression of hate on its face. Juliet had never seen anything like it on Shawn before.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean called, keeping his eyes locked on the creature.

"He won't be for long," the Not-Shawn hissed, and sprang forward.

Juliet tensed, expecting the shotgun to go off again, but Sam's voice cut through the room before Dean could pull the trigger. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritu_s," he shouted, lifting his head as high as he could. "_Omnis satanica potestas, omnis_—"

The creature howled at first, falling on one knee beside the table with its head in its hands. Then it sprang up with a snarl and went for Sam's throat. The younger Winchester's words were cut off with a sudden choking sound.

The shotgun banged again, this time catching the Not-Shawn on the right side of its chest. It staggered backwards as Dean took up the chant. "_Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,omnis legio, omnis congregatio et sect_a—"

"Stop it!" The creature thrust its hand toward Dean, shoving him backwards. He smacked the wall, losing the shotgun and cracking his head against the concrete. Juliet watched, horrified, as he slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood behind. He didn't move.

Sam's eyes were wide and locked on his brother. He opened his mouth but the Not-Shawn was quicker. It made a sharp gesture toward him, and Sam made choking noises again. His eyes rolled toward Juliet helplessly.

She took a hesitant step forward and the Not-Shawn stepped back to compensate, its hand still held out toward Sam. "Shawn?" she said softly. "Can you hear me?"

The thing inside Shawn raised its eyebrows, glaring at her contemptuously. It opened its mouth to speak, but Juliet interrupted. "Do you remember that day we went to the beach together, and you had that blue and white striped umbrella, and I wore my purple bikini?"

"I'm sorry," the creature said, grinning, "I wish I could remember. It sounds lovely. But I'm not your boyfriend."

"You tried to build a sandcastle," she continued, trying not to let her voice tremble, "but the waves kept washing it away. You said… you said someday, when we brought our kids to that beach, I was going to have to be the one to teach them how to build sandcastles. And you could teach them how to bury each other."

She expected another scathing remark, but the Not-Shawn's face had frozen. Its eyes were fixed on her, unblinking. Encouraged, she continued. "We stood at the edge of the water and buried our feet in the sand up to the ankles, and we had to hold on to each other to stay upright. And finally we splashed into the water together."

Sam's face was deathly pale. Dean still hadn't moved. The demon was still staring at Juliet with an expression of dumb surprise on its face. "I pulled you into the water," she said, her voice firmer now, taking a step toward the thing that looked like Shawn, "and kissed you."

Its hand reached out toward her and she flinched, expecting to have her throat close up like Sam's or to be shoved backwards like Dean. She closed her eyes, her entire body trembling… and felt the gentle caress of fingertips on her face.

Juliet's eyes snapped open. Shawn's face was clear and his eyes were wide and brown and _his_ again. "Jules?" he whispered. His other hand fell away and behind him, Sam started gasping. Juliet reached forward, intending to run her fingers through Shawn's hair, but suddenly he staggered backwards.

"Shawn!" she cried.

"He's still in here," he said, bending over with his hands on his knees. "I gotta…" He stopped, closing his eyes and beginning to pant. After a few moments his eyes opened a fraction and focused on Sam, who was coughing wildly. "That thing, that chant," Shawn spat. "It was working. Keep doing it. Quick. He's gonna—" His face closed up again and he bent forward even further, knuckles turning white where they clutched his knees.

Juliet thought Sam wouldn't even be able to breathe properly, but after a few more coughs he resumed the chant, albeit in a hoarser voice. "_…Et secta diabolica. Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servir_e—" Sam broke off, dissolving into another coughing fit.

Shawn had collapsed forward onto his knees. Every instinct in Juliet's body was screaming at her to help him, but she forced herself to stay where she was. He looked up, locking his eyes on hers for a brief moment—and then he blinked, and his eyes were coals again.

"That's enough!" the creature thundered. This time when the hand was thrust toward her, Juliet's throat did close. Her hands automatically came up, as thought to pry off the invisible attacker.

"Shawn," she gasped, releasing the last of her air.

It smiled, opened its mouth… and froze. Juliet knew why even before she saw the look in its eyes change from confusion to horror. The coughing had tapered off. Sam had his breath back.

"_…Servire te rogamus, audi no_s!" Sam cried. The effect was immediate and terrifying. The hold on Juliet's throat vanished and she fell to her knees, watching in awe and terror as the hideous black smoke she had seen before exploded from Shawn's mouth. It was just as quick as it had been the first time—she barely had time to see the smoke before it vanished through the door of the storage room. Shawn fell forward onto the concrete with an awful thud. She scrambled toward him on her hands and knees, ignoring the pain in her throat.

"Shawn," she rasped, grabbing desperately for his hand.

Shawn rolled over onto her lap and blinked up at her. His eyes scanned her face as it relaxed in an expression of relief. He opened his mouth to speak and winced.

"Ow," he said in a surprised voice, a hand coming up to his ribs. "You shot me, Jules."

She grinned at him. "You've had that coming for a long time," she replied, and leaned forward to kiss him.

"If you guys are done with your reunion, maybe someone can make sure my brother still has all of his brains inside his skull?" Sam called dryly from where he was still secured on the table. Juliet glanced up, immediately berating herself. She was a police officer, regardless of the situation, and she should have checked on Dean immediately after seeing that Shawn was alright. She set him down gently on the concrete and ran over to where Dean lay. He was breathing slowly and his color seemed good. She took a gentle hold of his chin and forehead and brought his head forward to look at the break in the skin. It was nothing but a scrape.

"He's fine," she called back to Sam. "Just a bump. He should wake up soon."

"Great. Now I would really appreciate it if you could use one of those fun tools over there to get me off of this thing before I bleed out." Sam's voice was pleasant with an edge of steel. She hurried over and selected one of the sharpest-looking knives.

Shawn's voice floated over to them from the floor, weak but with its usual gleeful tone. "You've got the equivalent of a sex god strapped to a table and you're just letting him go without taking advantage? I'm flattered at your love for me, Jules."

She grinned at the expression on Sam's face. "He's always like this," she told him, cutting through the bonds on his left wrist. "I've seen him crack jokes with serial killers and go head-to-head with Santa Barbara's crabbiest detective. He hasn't suffered any permanent damage."

"Lassie-face just needs some lovin'. He's been better since he got married. And by better I mean he comes up with a comeback in ten seconds rather than his usual twenty." Shawn picked himself up off the floor with a groan. "Was that salt? What was with the salt? I wasn't possessed by an incorporeal snail, was I?"

Juliet cut through the ropes on Sam's other wrist and he sat up with a moan of his own, stretching out his sore muscles and examining the cuts on his arms. "Nowhere near as slow or friendly as a snail," he said, taking the knife from Juliet to finish his feet. "It was—"

A third grunt of pain sounded in the room. Dean sat forward, rubbing his head and glancing at the tacky blood on his fingertips. "Damn it," he muttered, eyes flickering from Shawn to Juliet to his brother. "Did I miss all the fun again?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Hey guys! I'm sorry this last chapter took so long and I'm sorry it's not the best. I just moved into college and I've been completely overwhelmed the past few weeks. This has been bugging me so I decided to finally sit down and finish it. I'm looking for ideas for another multi-chapter crossover, so take a look at my fandoms and let me know if you have any! Thanks again for reading!**

"Jules, you don't understand. It's like the nectar of the gods. It's addicting and enlightening and if there isn't some form of potent drug in here, I'll make Gus eat my socks. My filthiest, crustiest, sweatiest socks."

"_Shawn_!"

Sam glanced at Dean outside of room 212. His brother gave a little half-shrug as if to say, _we've dealt with stranger people, _and pushed the door open on patient Spencer, Shawn.

He was sitting up, the hospital johnnie hanging loosely from his shoulders, exposing the dark bruise decorating his chest. He had received two cracked ribs from his close encounter with Dean's shotgun and would have been fine to recover at home if the doctor had been 100% positive there were no internal injuries. Since he was not, Shawn was staying the night and evidently not too put out about it.

"Winchesters!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up as they entered the room. "Have you tried the hospital pudding? They use it to fill you with happy drugs so you don't mind when they harvest your organs."

"That's just a conspiracy theory, Shawn," sighed a voice. The boys turned to see a younger man who looked like Bud from the Cosby Show leaning up against the far wall, glaring toward his bed-ridden friend.

Juliet was sitting in the chair beside her boyfriend, holding a cup of possibly drug-induced dessert. She rolled her eyes at the Winchesters as they approached, but she was smiling. Sam hadn't seen the relaxed expression on her face before and he grinned in response.

"Sam, Dean, this is Burton Guster, also known as Gus," she said, gesturing with the spoon to each person as she named them. Sam exchanged a nod with Gus as Shawn let out a whine.

"Jules, you didn't let me introduce him! That's _my_ job!"

"You are on very strong medication right now and you can barely form coherent sentences. I am trying my hardest to keep your mouth closed." That said, she stuck a spoonful of pudding into his mouth.

"How do you guys know Shawn?" Gus asked, sounding thoroughly confused. "No offence, but he doesn't exactly have a lot of friends outside of work."

"We know Juliet," Sam said. He was so used to creating backstories that he barely had to think. "Childhood friends. We were visiting her last night and we helped to get Shawn when he called her."

Gus nodded understandingly and glared at his doped friend. "Stupid idiot. He should know better than to climb latters and listen to Bohemian Rhapsody at the same time. No one can resist headbanging."

Sam wasn't exactly surprised to find that Shawn's friend was as eccentric as he was. He just gave the man a bemused smile.

"You know what heals all wounds?" Shawn asked suddenly, grinning at Sam. "Limes. Limes heal all wounds. Not lemons, though. Don't pour any lemon juice on those cuts. You'll… it… it'll hurt."

Gus snorted. "We should keep him on this medication all the time. He's smarter than ever."

"Smarter isn't a word, Gus," Shawn pouted.

They all gave each other a confused glance at that one. "Shawn, it's time to take a nap now," Juliet said, smoothing the hair back from his face. "Go to sleep."

He closed his eyes and Sam and Dean watched, mesmerized, as his breathing slowed down almost immediately. Juliet shrugged. "It works every time. It almost makes me wish we were keeping him on these meds."

Dean glanced at Gus, and then raised his eyebrows at Juliet. "We're gonna get back on the road, let you help Shawn out while he recovers."

"Oh!" She stood up, handing the plastic spoon and pudding cup over to Gus. "I'll be right back." She followed the Winchesters out to the hallway, closing the door softly behind them. Then Jules looked at Sam. "How are your arms?" she asked.

He let his hands skim over the bandages that were hidden beneath his long sleeves. It had been difficult to come up with a believable story of their origin that didn't involve self-harm. While that would have been plausible, it probably would have resulted in some sort of mandatory psychiatric evaluation. While the cuts had obviously not been made by an animal (Dean had insisted on a Doberman, for some reason), the hospital didn't call them out in the obvious lie. It helped that ER had been busy that night. The nurse had glanced at the cuts, raised her eyebrows, and poured some disinfectant on them. She was kinder than Dean would have been.

"They'll heal," he said shortly. He snuck a glance at his brother, who looked as though he were reading the health information sheets tacked to the corridor walls. Sam knew it was an act. Dean had been abnormally quiet the past few hours, and most likely would continue to be for the next few days. The last thing his brother needed was another helping of guilt to add to his already overflowing plate.

She nodded sympathetically. "I just can't thank you guys enough for everything. It was stupid of me to think I could handle hunting on my own after so long, and I just don't know what would have happened to Shawn and I if you hadn't been there."

"We would've been screwed without you, Jules." Dean leaned in for a hug and Juliet returned it enthusiastically. When they pulled away he raised an eyebrow at her again. "Bohemian Rhapsody? Really?"

"Oh, everyone will believe it, trust me," she grinned, standing on her tiptoes to give Sam a gentle hug. "One time he got shot while looking for the murderer of an ice cream truck and the wound got duct-taped with a Shammy. Then he had to jump from his kidnapper's truck to Detective Lassiter's car going 60 miles an hour down the highway." Her smile grew wider at the expression on their faces. "That's not even the worst story. No one will look into this too much. And the SBPD will investigate the hotel for a few months and then it'll get shifted to the back burner. Unfortunately there are always other killers to occupy our time."

Dean nodded. "And if it's our kind of killer, you have our number."

"My own personal Ghostbusters," Jules laughed. They gave her another brief hug, said their goodbyes, and waited until she had snuck into Shawn's hospital room again. They smiled as they heard him say, "Juliet! What light through yonder hospital doorway breaks! Gus won't give me any pudding!" Then they turned and walked down the brightly lit corridor, already thinking about their next destination.

They had already passed the California border and were speeding through Arizona when Dean let out a loud cuss word and slammed his hand on the steering wheel. Sam jumped; he had been completely lost in his thoughts. "Jesus Christ, Dean!" he shouted. "What the hell?"

They were in the middle of a desert; his older brother pulled over to the side in a whirlwind of dust and sand. He turned down the radio and looked at Sam with wide eyes.

"Remember when we talked with the coroner and he told us about the sulfur smell?"

"Dean, it was like a day ago."

"Remember when we thought he looked like someone we knew?"

"Dude, you're freaking me out. Just spit it out already. Who did he look like?"

Dean just shook his head. "This is just too crazy, but I swear they're identical. Think back a few years, during the pre-Apocalypse crap. Who was the one person in our lives you hated more than anyone else?"

"Dean, that guy was bald. He didn't look a thing like Lucifer."

"Not Lucifer."

Sam opened his mouth to tell his brother to just cool it with the grade-school guessing games and spill when it hit him. His jaw dropped open and immediately he understood why Dean had been so shocked. He let out a huge breath while Dean nodded at his revelation.

"Holy shit, it was Zachariah!"


End file.
